Our bodies presented themselves as allegories
to untangle. Then rain blurred the forest. Then ice
made of the treetops chandeliers. The book of the dead
then went by other names: book of breathing, book of traversing
eternity, book of emerging forth into the light.
Standing at the lake, we could hear
each wave tinkling with ice—each wave rolling through
the long thin clusters of softening matter,
like a delicate hammer on a bell—the sound
from another world entirely.
I touched your shadow, you touched the drop of blood
that stood for my heart. The sun, moon, and earth
moved around one another in long-established patterns
like people in love in a story.